The Wanderer
by Tredbull
Summary: Short story set in the Hunt Showdown universe.


The flames of the bonfire flickered brightly in the darkness. The hunter threw another piece of wood into the fire to keep it going. It kept the wolves away, and the undead did not seem to take an interest to flames. The summer night was cold, yet the fire kept him warm. As he looked up to the sky he could see the stars between the treetops. There would be no rain this night. He grabbed his rifle to do the daily maintenance. Some oil would do it well, and make it work perfectly for the task to come.  
Suddenly there was a sound of a branch breaking to his left. In a split-second, the Caldwell Uppercut was out of its holster and aimed into the darkness.  
"Who`s there!" the hunter said with a raspy voice. All he could hear was the light breeze and the crackling from the fire.  
"Do not be alarmed stranger." a calm voice answered, "I come in peace, and I am unarmed." "Step into the light!" the hunter responded, not trusting whoever were hiding in the shadows.  
"Very well." a tall figure came slowly forward. His hands open and empty. He had opened his cloak to show that he carried no gun holster in his belt. "May I join you by your fire?"  
"Who are you?" the hunter asked, still pointing his revolver at the newcomer.  
"Just a wanderer by the name of Joseph Wilkins." he looked like a man in his late fifties. Grey hair, dark clothes and a cloak that went all the way to the ground. The hunter pulled back his revolver, pointing it upwards.  
"I am John Miller. How did you pass my traps without triggering them?"  
The Wanderer lowered his hands slowly, "Oh, I saw your traps. Effective against the undead I am sure, but I am not as easily fooled. I have walked enough forests to keep an eye out for its dangers. May I sit?"

John nodded, keeping the gun in his lap as a precaution. It had been three days since he entered the woods, and he had seen no sign of any humans. Only wildlife and the dreaded undead who roamed the area. He had cleared out every walking dead nearby before setting camp, but one could never be sure if more would show up.  
"Judging from your equipment and the fact that you are in this specific location, I take it you are here for the bounty." Joseph said.  
"You know about the bounty, are you the competition then?" John had a suspicion in his voice. "No, as I said, I am just a wanderer. But I might be able to help you."  
"I don`t need any help."  
This was not Johns first hunt. Bears, rabid dogs, wanted criminals, they all had gone down with a solid bullet to the head. Hell, even the raised dead could not withstand that.  
"Is that so." Joseph replied, "As a hunter, I am sure you know how important it is to know your prey. What do you really know about this creature?"  
"I know it is a big spider. Last seen half a days march north of here." John said, "They want it gone, and they pay handsomely to anyone that will take it down. I am not going to let anyone stand in the way of me collecting that bounty."  
"As I said, I am not here to compete for it." said the wanderer, "But that is not much information you got there."  
"They did not have anymore."  
"What if I told you that I have killed it before?" said Joseph.  
"Then I would say you did not do a very good job." John answered drily. He was still unsure if this person was trustworthy, or just some madman, walking the woods unarmed.  
"I have to confess, in the beginning, I was bad at it," said Joseph, "But I learned. I can tell you my story, and you can do what you want with it. Discard it as an old man's mumbo jumbo, or use the knowledge to your advantage."  
"Go on then."

Almost thirty years ago, in the year 1876, I was a young investigator. I was to check out the case of a missing family who lived on a farm, south in Louisiana. When I and my colleagues found them, they were all dead. Drained of blood, and wrapped up in cobweb for storage. But that was not the most horrible thing we saw that day. In the barn, we found the creature. It was large as a bull and insanely fast. We had to call in reinforcements and took it out with heavy guns.  
It was one hell of a fight. Two men died that day, and three more wounded. But the spider seemed dead. It was not.  
We buried the horrid body behind the barn. But the day after we found that the creature had crawled out of its grave and disappeared. We had to track it down again and kill it one more time. We were more careful and managed to do it without human casualties.  
To be sure it did not return yet again, we burned the carcass and buried the ashes. Even that was not enough. It was spotted a week later down on a harbor, feeding on a helpless fisherman. First, we thought we were dealing with another spider. But later I learned that was not the case.  
I will not bore you with the details, but my investigation led me to Breaux Bridge. It is a small town about ten miles from here. There, in a house of a man called George Conely, I revealed the terrifying truth.  
It appeared that Conley was an occultist. Experimenting on his own in the basement of his house. I found an altar, decorated in strange occult symbols. Dead animals and old books were all over the room. Conleys writings revealed that he had been dealing with the summoning of a daemon. After several failed attempts, he finally managed to open a portal for the daemon he had been communicating with, to pass through. It was a mistake.

The daemon, who's name was Ramash, possessed Conley. It was the only way it could stay in our realm. The possession process kept going for days. The writings of Conley got stranger and stranger as madness overtook him. He managed to draw simple drawings of his visions, and they could not be described as anything but horrible and perverse corruptions of reality. The daemon must have been feeding on his fears. From later conversations with Conley's family members, I found out that he was suffering from arachnophobia. The daemon transformed him into what he fared the most.  
At that point, I had to study the occult myself. To better understand what we were dealing with, and how to defeat such a creature. From what I understand, Conley has no control over what happens anymore. He is just brought along for the ride and has to witness all the terrible things the daemon does. It is a fate worse than death. I came to understand this when we encountered and killed him the third time. His head is still part of the spider's body, and I could see the fear in his eyes as the creature bled out in some abandoned ruins, outside Breaux Bridge. Upfront, we had prepared a banishing ritual, that would make sure he stayed dead. It worked. At least for a while. It took over ten years before we saw anything from the monster again. But we managed to banish him a second time. Now it seems like it is your turn to fight this horrid abomination.

"That is one incredible story wanderer." John threw another log into the fire.  
"If you do not banish him, and he shows up a few days later, do you think you will be able to collect the bounty?" asks Joseph.  
"I guess not, but I know nothing about any banishing."  
"It is not really that hard if you know the name of the daemon." Joseph pulled out a small bottle from his breast pocket and handed it over.  
"Pour this liquid over the carcass, and recite his name. The banishing process will start." John looked at the little bottle. Several small symbols were carved into the glass.  
"I guess I will give it a try." he said and put it in his own pocket.  
"And John, I really hope you are a good shot.


End file.
